by Maggie Price
Leaning in, Colaneri leered at the screen. "Broad's hotter than that stiff you had me torch."
"I didn't ask you in here to discuss Mr. Tool's predicament," Spurlock said at the reference to his former accountant. He hit the remote's off button. Although at this point his interest lay only in the woman the cameras had captured on film, experience had taught him to investigate anyone who got close. Or tried to. Since next-door neighbors fell into that category, he would have her husband checked out, too.
"Peter, I'm interested in my new neighbors. I want you to make the standard inquiries first thing in the morning."
"Will do, boss. That it for now?"
Looking back at the TV, Spurlock fought an unsettling urge to view the tape for an uncountable time. His mouth thinned. The need to watch the woman made him feel like a common voyeur.
"Make a copy of the tape. Take the copy to our contact and have him make prints of each frame the woman is in."
"Just the woman? Not the man?"
"Correct."
"You want me to do that in the morning, too?"
Spurlock slicked Colaneri a razor-sharp look. "Tonight, Peter. I want that done tonight. Make sure the prints are on the desk in my bedroom before my last guest leaves."
"Anything you say, boss."
* * *
"Damn," Morgan muttered, slashing a knife at a handful of unsuspecting shallots spread across the cooking island's built-in cutting board. "Damn. Damn!"
Although several hours had passed since the limo had sat idling in the street, her skin still crawled from the sensation of being watched. Spurlock's surveillance cameras had gotten to her, too, she realized. Just knowing they'd been aimed at her had filled her with a sense of paranoia. Of violation.
Great, she thought. It was her job to get the guy on the other side of the high wall to leer at her. And when he did, she felt as if she should check to make sure she'd put on her clothes before stepping outdoors. What little clothes she wore, that is.
Giving her head a disgusted shake, she laid the knife aside, grabbed a hot pad and lifted the lid off a large pot. Rich, aromatic steam billowed out, confirmation her homemade chicken stock was on steady simmer.
Retrieving the knife, she went back to taking her frustration out on the shallots. With every chop, the feeling that she was being watched intensified.
She had to find her balance. She was used to being in control. Alex had briefed her fully about what the job entailed, and here she was, feeling creeped out over something she had known would happen.
Being the object of Spurlock's focus wasn't the only reason she was feeling skittish, she admitted. She thought of the huge closet off the master bedroom where her undercover wardrobe now shared space with Alex's. Of the bathroom where their toiletries lined the shelves with an intimate closeness.
It was all for show—Alex would sleep in one of the guestrooms. Still, they had to maintain appearances. Just as she and Alex planned to search Spurlock's gold bedroom for the evidence Krystelle Vander had hid there, something similar could happen here. What if they invited Spurlock over, and he—or his date or a bodyguard—slipped upstairs on the pretense of using the restroom? That person might just poke around to make sure the Donovans lived as the hot-for-each-other husband and wife they appeared to be in public.
Morgan knew she could probably heap most of the blame for her unsteadiness on the fact that she couldn't get near Alex Blade without her pulse pounding and her knees turning weak. That reaction was supposed to be an act, a piece of role-playing for their neighbor's benefit. Problem was, her response to Blade was as real and sharp as the knife in her hand.
"Damn," she muttered as another wave of frustration rolled over her. She had to get control of her emotions. Throttle them back before whatever was beginning to grow blossomed—
"What did those onions do to deserve death by hacking?"
She jolted at the sound of Alex's voice coming from so close behind her. When she looked across her shoulder they were suddenly face-to-face and eye to eye. Mouth to mouth. Her throat went dry. "What…what did you say?"
Moving in, he leaned against the island, examining the remains on the cutting board. He was still dressed in the blue shirt and slacks he'd worn earlier. This late in the day, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, giving his face a rawboned look.
"I asked what the onions did to deserve death by hacking?"
"They're shallots."
"Okay, shallots."
"Nothing. I was just working out a problem. I talk to myself sometimes when I do that."
"Apparently." He picked up her diamond ring from beside the small sink where she'd laid it when she washed her hands. She hadn't realized until that moment she'd forgotten to put it back on.
"Need help with your problem?" he asked easily.
"No, thanks." You are it. She glanced at the ingredients and utensils spread across the island. "I can move my stuff out of your way if you need the cooktop or grill. Or I can move completely and use the range." She swept her gaze around what in her mind was a storybook kitchen. "This place has enough appliances, utensils and work space for six chefs."
"Don't bother moving. Or moving anything, for that matter." He rolled the gold band between two fingers, watching the enormous diamond glint beneath the kitchen's bright lights. "The extent of my cooking ability is limited to the microwave."
"That simplifies the question, 'What's for dinner?'"
He bounced the ring in his palm. "There's a lot to be said for keeping things simple."
"I agree." Using the knife's edge, she scooped up diced shallots, dumped them into a saucepan in which she had oil heating. "I don't use the microwave often, so we won't get in each other's way."
"Wouldn't want that." Reaching, he caught her left hand in his. "You should be wearing this," he said, sliding the band onto her finger. Instead of letting go, he shifted his hold, wrapped his fingers around hers.
"I…" She looked down at their joined hands, saw he still wore the plain gold band she'd slid onto his finger that morning. "I took my ring off to wash my hands." Her voice carried a barely perceptible quake.
"And forgot about it."
She had no intention of admitting that. "I planned to put it back on after I cleaned up my dishes."
His thumb commenced a slow slide across her knuckles while his dark eyes moved over her face in sharp assessment. "Morgan, the more you wear your ring, the more it becomes habit." He released her hand. "It needs to become habit."
"It will." Diverting her gaze, she tossed more shallots into the saucepan. She could still feel the faint slide of his thumb against her knuckles. "I've only had the ring since this morning."
"Morgan Donovan wouldn't leave a six-carat diamond lying beside the sink. To a woman like her, wearing that ring would become habit very quickly."
Her lips thinned. He was right. Her choice in jewelry—when she bothered to wear it—ran to practical and discreet. Where this operation was concerned, her preferences didn't apply. Here, in this vast, elegant mansion, Morgan McCall didn't exist. Sultry, sexy Mrs. Alexander Donovan, with her clothes scooped low at her breasts and cut high on her thighs ruled the roost. And that woman flaunted every bauble, trinket and diamond her loving husband showered on her.
Alex glanced at his watch. "Guess it's my dinnertime, too," he commented, then strode across the kitchen. He reached the stainless-steel refrigerator, swung open the freezer's door. Morgan furrowed her brow when he grabbed a box without glancing at it.
"While you're there," she began, "would you bring me the plastic bowl with the blue lid out of the refrigerator?"
"Sure."
"Thanks," she said when he moved back to the island and handed her the bowl.
"What's in it?"
"Arugula puree. I brought it from home." At his blank look she added, "It's like pesto. It's an ingredient in the arugula risotto I'm making."
He sniffed the air. "Smells good."
"Thanks." She paused, wonderin
g how long it had been since he'd had a home-cooked meal. "Do you know what's in the box you pulled out of the freezer?"
He looked down. "Pepperoni pizza. Thin crust. Why?"
"You didn't even look at the box until just now."
"Your point?"
"My point is, I'm standing here with my hair poofed to the ceiling." She paused to give the shallots a quick stir. "I'm wearing a hot-pink tube top, tight capri pants and ankle-wrecking heels. I have to stay in floozy mode the entire time we're here just in case someone from Spurlock's side of the fence pays us an unexpected visit."
Alex set the box aside as his gaze swept over her. "Mr. Donovan noticed his wife's wardrobe the instant he walked into the kitchen. Mr. Donovan approves. Morgan, your point about the pizza?"
"I'm thinking about what you taught me about working undercover. You said it's all image. That it's imperative we stay in character all the time."
"Right."
"What will a visitor conclude if he knocks on our door at dinnertime and we're eating different kinds of food?"
Alex angled his chin. "I've already worked that out. For example, if someone shows up tonight, I'll say I'm allergic to arugula." His mouth curved. "Whatever the hell it is."
"It's a salad green. I grow it in my garden." She turned the heat down under the broth, then met his gaze. "We could maybe get away with that once. The reality is, married couples dine together while eating the same food. We want to keep this illusion going, so we should do that, too."
"If you're suggesting we take turns cooking, I'm all for it. For more reasons than it would eliminate our having to come up with explanations for why we don't do something according to the norm. The only downside in the deal falls your way. That's why I didn't suggest our sharing cooking duties in the first place."
She dumped the rice she'd premeasured into the pan with the shallots. "You thought of this already?"
"It's my job to try to anticipate everything. I knew if we stayed in on my nights to cook you'd have to settle for takeout or something from the freezer. It's not exactly fair to force fast and frozen foods on a gourmet cook."
"I'm not a gourmet cook." She tapped a pink fingernail on the recipe card lying to one side of the cooktop. "I own a few fancy cooking utensils and know how to follow directions, that's all."
"From where I'm standing, that's gourmet. What do you suggest we do about our cooking arrangement?"
"Simplify things so we don't have to come up with a lie."
"If you want to share kitchen duty, we can go out to eat on my nights to cook."
"Either that, or I can cook for both of us whenever we eat in."
"Won't that get old?"
"Not if you always set the table, then clean up everything afterward. Deal?"
"If you think I'm going to turn down that offer, you're wrong." Snagging the pizza, he strode to the freezer, tossed the box back inside. He turned to face her, his mouth curving. "Not only do I get home-cooked meals, doing this helps cement our cover. It's a good call on your part, Morgan."
"Thanks."
She stirred the rice, then retrieved a bottle of wine from the glass-fronted cooler, pouring some into the rice mixture. Alex pulled plates from a cabinet and carried them to the antique French oak table snugged into an alcove formed by a tall sweep of triple windows.
Since they had agreed to share kitchen duty and meals, she decided it would be best not to do it in silence. "Mind if I ask you a question?"
He slid her a look as he gathered up silverware. "Depends on the question."
"Why didn't you ever learn to cook? Did you maybe grow up fabulously wealthy with people waiting on you hand and foot?"
He let a minute of silence pass before saying, "I was a delinquent. I was too busy stealing and scamming people to learn my way around a kitchen."
She blinked. "Are you serious?"
He moved to the table, placed silverware beside the plates. "Growing up, my only real goal was to get kicked out of every foster home the system stuck me in."
"Not exactly the greatest goal for a kid."
"No, but at the time I thought it was." He moved back to the island, pausing on the side opposite from her.
"Not many people go from delinquent to cop," she commented while ladling chicken stock into the rice.
He raised a shoulder. "I got lucky."
"Because of George Jackson?" The instant she said the name, a look crossed Alex's face, a quick shadow. "You told me the other day he's the reason you're a cop," she said quietly.
"He is."
"If it's too painful to talk about him, don't. I was just curious."
Turning, Alex stared out the long window over the sink, his gaze riveted on the impenetrable brick wall with its surveillance cameras. Studying his hard, unyielding profile, Morgan again pictured the crime-scene photos, the glint of matted blood against George Jackson's silver hair. She wondered if Alex was seeing that image, too. Wondered if he was thinking about the man who lived on the other side of the high wall. Carlton Spurlock, who had either killed George Jackson or ordered his murder.
She busied herself with the risotto while Alex stood in silence, seemingly lost in thought. When he finally turned, his mouth was set. Something cold and menacing had settled at the back of his eyes. He had turned dangerous right before her.
Though she knew who he was, what he was, Morgan felt a bony finger of fear skitter down her spine.
"I never learned to cook because my mother was too busy selling herself to score drugs and booze," he began, his voice as smooth as a polished dagger. "On my seventh birthday, she walked out of the flophouse room we stayed in and never came back."
Morgan went still. If things had been different between them, she would have reached for him. "What about your father?"
"My mother had no idea who planted the seed, so she couldn't introduce us. I figure he was a carbon copy of the losers she brought home every night. Most of them were drunks. Some got off on slapping her around. One got his kicks by beating me until I passed out."
"Alex…" What he was saying was horrible enough, but hearing it recited in a flat, empty voice froze her blood.
"By the time I was eleven, the experts labeled me 'incorrigible.' They were right. I had a smart mouth, a bad attitude and I never backed down from a fight. I was damn proud of that. Every foster home the state put me in tossed me out within days. The counselors couldn't keep me in school and juvie hall couldn't keep me locked in for long."
"Where did you live? How did you live?"
"By my wits. I staked a claim on a spot in a dilapidated building downtown where homeless drunks stayed. By then I had become a decent pickpocket and an even better scam artist. Most of my money came from running a sidewalk shell game. Turns out, one of the sidewalks I did business on was part of George Jackson's beat."
"He nabbed you?"
"Snatched me up by the scruff of my neck." Again, Alex focused his gaze out the window. "George was six foot four and two hundred plus pounds. He looked like a mountain and acted mean as hell. He even scared me, and after living on the street I was pretty immune. I figured the big, tough cop would give me a few knocks to make sure I stayed out of his territory, toss me back into the system and walk away. Instead he clamped on to me like a damn steel-jawed trap and wouldn't let go. He cut through red tape and got me into a youth center where I could get three squares and a bed as long as I went to nightly counseling sessions. George showed up at the sessions, even on his days off, to make sure I didn't duck out. He talked me into going back to school, got me interested in joining the wrestling squad instead of fighting with my fists." Alex looked over at her again. The darkness that had settled in his eyes battered Morgan's heart. "To this day I don't know why he hung around to see the results. And I sure as hell can't ask him now."
She bit her lip. "He obviously saw the potential in you."
Alex shrugged away the comment, but the gesture was jerky. "Maybe." His forehead furrowed. "Damn."
"What?"
"I don't know what George thought. Any more than I know why I just told you all that. I've never told—" He held up a hand. "You asked why I don't know how to cook. Instead you got a play-by-play on how I grew up."
"Which clearly explains why you never learned to cook," she commented. "Like you said, we need to do whatever we can to feel comfortable around each other. Maybe telling me about your past is your way of doing that?"
"Maybe," he said, watching her closely.
She turned back to the cooktop, began putting the final touches on the risotto, while trying to conceal the unsteadiness in her hands. She had thought her reaction to him was all physical, brought on by her hormones responding to a too-long period of abstinence. By telling her about his past, Alex had opened a door into himself, given her a look inside the man with whom she would share almost every waking moment during the foreseeable future.
Now it wasn't just a chemical response that drew her to him but an emotional one. He'd been a child, battered not only by fists but by life itself, yet he'd pulled himself up, made something of himself. That he grieved for the murdered cop who had believed in him enough to give him a chance made her heart ache.
Alex Blade wasn't just a man who could distract her with a look and stir her blood by walking into a room. He was also her partner, worthy of admiration and respect.
She clenched her unsteady fingers on a dish towel, unclenched them. She had offered her heart before to a man who pulled at her senses. He'd handed it back to her, broken and scarred.
That in itself was a very practical, very logical, very sane reason for her to keep her guard up around Alex. Add to that the nature of their work, which made any sort of involvement between them beyond a professional one potentially lethal.
So she wouldn't risk her life, her job or her heart. She would do what was smart, which was concentrate on her career. She and Alex would complete this assignment, then go their separate ways. And that would be that.
Would have to be that.